


A bird in hand

by Askellie (NadaNine)



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe - Underfell, Anonymous Sex, M/M, Post-Undertale Neutral Route - King Papyrus Ending, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stolen Magic, Stolen ecto-vagina
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-08-27 02:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8383897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadaNine/pseuds/Askellie
Summary: With his magic stolen and his virtue being simultaneously defiled and held hostage, Queen Sans endures the horror of being his brother's most vulnerable weakness.
Meanwhile, Papyrus is out for blood and dust. No one is allowed to take what belongs to him.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s raining where he is.  
  
Sans blinks up blearily at the ceiling and immediate his eye-sockets fill with water. Everything feels cold and damp. His skull is waterlogged, and as he carefully sits up he can feel it swishing around inside him before it begins to drain away down the length of his vertebrae. He looks around, vision blurring through the downpour, but he doesn’t recognise where he is.   
  
He doesn’t remember how he got here.  
  
For a moment it feels like his soul jumps up to his throat because the most likely culprit of any disorientation is a Reset, but if that were the case then the scene in front of him should look familiar. It doesn’t, especially when he glances down and realises he’s not wearing his old jacket and torn shorts, but one of the regal dresses that marks him as the Queen of the Underground. This one has been torn completely down the middle, from his clavicle to its hem, leaving it gaping open, his naked bones exposed. He tentatively wraps the shorn ends back around himself. The waterlogged fabric clings heavily.  
  
He’s strangely sore. There’s no visible marks, but his bones ache with the bruises of invisible hand-prints all over his body.  His pelvis feels the worst, and his progress is painstakingly slow as he climbs to his feet, knees wobbling and spine awkwardly hunched. His shoes are missing too, which is a damn shame, because normally he can get away with comfortable, practical sneakers hidden under his skirts. His bare feet scrape uncomfortably on the craggy floor.   
  
Sans isn’t naïve, or an idiot. He can guess why his bones hurt, why his dress is torn the way it is, and why the skimpy underwear he normally has on to titillate Papyrus when they’re holding court has been screwed up and discarded several feet away. There’s no evidence left on his body; the water would have washed it all away. Maybe that’s why he’s in Waterfall. It’s one of the few places the canine members of the guard can’t use their noses to track.   
  
_Fuckers_ , he thinks venomously, holding the shreds of his dress closer. He supposes it’s slightly better to have endured _that_ than to have been dusted immediately. It might even be some sort of warped blessing that he can’t actually remember anything specific, not even how they could have taken him from the Castle in New Home. Papyrus usually never lets his Queen out of his sight.  
  
He limps slowly to the mouth of a nearby tunnel, trying to orient himself. Once upon a time he knew even the far reaches of the Underground well, but these days he doesn’t get out to explore much.  Alongside Hotland, Waterfall is the most fluctuating area as tunnels are worn away or flooded by water. Everything around him seems unfamiliar, hazy and almost dreamlike. He’s starting to wonder if maybe he hit his skull on something, to leave him feeling so dazed.  
  
“SANS!”  
  
That’s…Papyrus’s voice. Monsters halfway across the underground could probably hear that shout, but Sans thinks maybe he’s close. Surely he would be. He’d never leave Sans alone like this.   
  
“Pap!” he dares to call back, hoping his brother will hear it, but his voice is a strained cough that bounces distortedly off the interior of the cavern, echoing weakly. He stumbles onward, using the wall for balance.  
  
The tunnel is slightly more dry than the cavern had been. Sans keeps his eyes open for anything recognisable or anything suspicious, but the area is deserted. He pauses for a minute to catch his breath and recover from the strain of forcing his body to move, but somehow his eyes must have slipped shut because the next thing he’s aware of is his body being engulfed by powerful arms. He yelps, kicking out instinctively only to hear the deep rumble of his brother’s voice in his ear.  
  
“Sans, it’s me!”  
  
Sans goes limp instantly, letting himself slump weakly against Papyrus’s chest. _Safe_ , he thinks with a dizzying wave of relief as Papyrus’s hands cradle him with surprising gentleness, running over his bones, searching for breaks. He feels his brother check him, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to satisfy his concern.  
  
Papyrus shakes him urgently, claws tight on Sans’s collarbones. “Are you hurt? _Where are they_?”  
  
“Dunno. Gone,” Sans mumbles. He can hear the clanking of armour around them, and although he’s glad his brother didn’t come alone, he’s suddenly surrounded by the discomforting stares of their concerned guard while his modesty is being barely preserved by his torn dress. He feels unsettlingly vulnerable, and he clings fiercely to Papyrus’s neck, trying not to think about it. At least bones don’t readily show bruises, so they might not realise how injured he is. Even now, he hates being Papyrus’s weak point.  
  
A canine member of the guard steps forward, saluting sharply. “Your majesty. Permission to inspect the Queen for traces of the culprit?”  
  
Sans cringes. Papyrus holds him tightly. “Permission granted, but be swift.”  
  
The guard swiftly sniffs him over, thankfully not lingering too long on any particular place. She takes a step back and sneezes emphatically before reporting, “Smells like wet and stone. No trace of anyone unfamiliar.”  
  
“Woke up in the cavern back there,” Sans says, gesturing vaguely without looking. He doesn’t want to see the expression on anyone’s face, least of all the burning fury on Papyrus’s.  
  
“Go,” Papyrus orders her darkly before turning to the rest of their entourage. “The rest of you spread out. Bring back anyone you find in the area. I want them alive for questioning. Treat everyone as guilty until I order you otherwise.”  
  
There’s a racuous shout of affirmation that’s amplified almost deafeningly in the tight tunnel. Sans cynically muses that anyone unfortunate enough to be in any of the adjoining passages probably knows to start running. Maybe some of them will even make it. He’s pretty sure whoever dragged him out here would be smart enough to be long gone by now.  
  
The guard disperse, and Papyrus focuses his full attention back on Sans. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, but Sans can feel the tension in his brother’s frame. He can only imagine what it must have been like, not knowing where Sans was, with the only logical prediction forcing him to assume the worst. Sans tightens his grip on Papyrus’s neck.  
  
“Still here, bro,” he whispers lowly. Papyrus just nods, unwilling to speak, which can only mean he’s afraid his voice might betray some unseemly emotion. That’s more than enough for Sans. He doesn’t need words to know his brother cares.  
  
Underneath the relief, there’s a budding feeling of dread that he doesn’t want to call attention to. He’s not stupid enough to believe in miracles or mercy. If his abductors left him for his brother to find, there must be a reason for it, and Sans has no idea what it might be.  
  
——————————————————————————————–  
  
“COMPLETE AND UTTER INCOMPETENCE!” Papyrus roars at the complete assembly of the Royal Guard, his fury as palpable as the dangerous threads of magic threatening to coalesce in the air. Every single soldier cringes from their King’s snarling denouncement, and even Sans winces in sympathy.  
  
His memory of the whole event is still strangely absent, but apparently he had disappeared at some point during his brother’s annual procession through the underground. It’s a risky tradition, but one Papyrus insists on maintaining to impress upon the remaining population the strength of their King, as well as presenting himself as a more involved, accessible ruler than Asgore had become in his later years. Naturally every possible precaution had been taken to ensure the safety of the King and Queen, and yet somehow something had gone terribly awry.  
  
The Royal couple had been temporarily separated in Snowdin, having relaxed slightly upon reaching the end of their journey, at ease in familiar territory. Papyrus had wanted to survey the forest to ensue their outermost defences – the puzzles and traps he had once maintained himself – were still being taken care of. Sans had opted to stay back in town. He’d apparently told Papyrus he was going to mingle with the townsfolk, which his brother had candidly assumed meant Sans was going to sneak away to Grillby’s to fraternise with the local rabble. Sans knows himself well enough to suspect his brother is right, but he doesn’t remember actively making that decision.  
  
Papyrus claims to have been gone no more than two hours, but when he’d returned to Snowdin, his panicked guard had just become aware that no one had seen or heard from the Queen for an uncertain amount of time. Every building had been searched and every resident interrogated, but apparently Sans had never gone to Grillby’s after all and no one could remember having seen the Queen since Papyrus had left.  
  
Sans had been missing for half a day. He isn’t sure whether it’s luck or design for Papyrus to have found him in Waterfall. Apparently Papyrus had intended to search the entire underground from one end to the other if necessary. He thankfully came across Sans relatively swiftly, narrowly sparing the population a second murderous sweep. Sans’s two personal bodyguards are both missing, and it’s impossible to know if they’re dead or traitors. No signs of a conflict had been found, but their dust could have been scattered anywhere between the two regions.  
  
The guard had searched Snowdin, the cavern where Sans had been found, and all the areas in between only to find nothing. There’s no evidence at all aside from Sans’s torn dress and discarded undergarments, both of which have been put on display in front of the guard to underscore their failure. Sans is pointedly not looking at them, or into the faces of anyone in the audience. He’d have preferred to be hiding out in their room, but Papyrus isn’t willing to allow Sans out of his sight any time soon. At least he’s back in his more comfortable day-wear, discarding formal gowns for plain shorts and his favourite jacket. The furred hood gives him a reprieve whenever the stares become too much.  
  
He sighs, shifting achingly in his seat. The royal healer had examined him, of course, at Papyrus’s insistence, but Sans had only been able to endure the most cursory of inspections before he was objecting vehemently, shuddering violently from the intrusive memories of hole-punctured hands and the sterile smell of the labs. The cynical part of him knows there won’t be any evidence to find, and frankly he doesn’t want to know in any further detail exactly what happened. He doesn’t want to think about it, he doesn’t want to talk about it, and he isn’t going to let Papyrus’s well-intentioned but unwelcome concern convince him otherwise.  
  
This kind of thing wouldn’t happen if he weren’t so _weak_. He isn’t going to distract his brother from the more serious implications of this security breech by getting upset over an assault that hadn’t actually killed him – that hadn’t even left a mark besides the invisible tenderness of his bones and the odd, tight feeling in his soul that something was greatly amiss.   
  
He ignores the feeling, burying it under impassive disinterest as his brother whips the guard into zealous, protective frenzy. Dust will probably be spilled soon as the issue of blame is sorted out among them, trying to discern who should have been responsible for reporting the Queen’s absence and who must have been remiss in their duties to allow such a thing to happen. Sans doesn’t feel particularly vindictive despite their failure, but then he doesn’t feel especially sorry for them either, and if that is what’s needed to mitigate his brother’s fury then he’s fine with an impromptu execution.  
  
His brother is just taking a fresh breath to unleash a fresh tirade upon the unfortunate guard when Sans first feels something. It’s a fleeting, exploratory touch against some of his most intimate nerves, and he sucks in a startled breath, his posture growing rigid with tension. He hasn’t summoned his magic. That part of him shouldn’t even be manifested, but somehow the sensation is undoubtedly that of someone running their fingers along the lips of his pussy – an extension of his magic summoned exclusively for his brother’s enjoyment during their intimacy.  
  
It’s _impossible_. How could anyone-!?  
  
A finger is suddenly shoved rudely inside him, and Sans yelps, bending double from both the rough sting of unlubricated penetration, and the absolute horror that this is suddenly something that is actually happening to him, and in front of both his brother and the entire contingent of the Royal Guard.  
  
Papyrus stops mid-sentence, staring down at him in concern. Every eye in the room is upon him. “Sans?”  
  
Sans tries to speak but a second finger is thrust in alongside the first, stretching him way too fast for comfort in his complete lack of arousal. He can feel how tight his inner walls are, reacting to his stress at the intrusion, trying to force the invader out. In response, the fingers inside him begin to flex, scissoring him open, leaving him spluttering in aghast bewilderment.  
  
“Sans!?” Papyrus grabs him, and though his voice snaps with warning, there’s something vulnerable hidden poorly in his expression. That snaps Sans’s priorities back into order. He can’t be here. He can’t let his brother be forced to show weakness in public.   
  
“Bedroom,” Sans gasps, and before he can think better of it he teleports there immediately despite being in view of every member of the Guard. He’s never shown his powers so blatantly, and he knows there’ll be repercussions for his flagrant display of such a rare skill, but right now he can’t afford to care. Someone is touching him in ways no one but his brother ever should, and Sans has no idea how to stop them.   
  
Panic makes his jump through timespace more violent than usual, and as he steps into the familiar walls of the royal bed-chambers Sans staggers, collapsing beside the bed. He immediately shoves his shorts down to his knees, examining his pelvis, but although there’s a flush of magic gathering reflexively over his bones, confused by the stimulation, there’s absolutely nothing manifested…and yet somehow he can feel his pussy being excruciatingly coaxed open by someone’s careless, insistent touch.  
  
 _Oh fuck_ , he thinks, curling into a tight ball as he tries to fight off his body’s reaction. He’s lucid enough to realise that this must be why whoever took him deigned to let him live. There are worse things than a quick and painless dusting. This might very well be one of them.  
  
He forces his face against the mattress to muffle his screech as his molester abruptly decides they’re finished with their examination and are ready to get on to the main event. Sans has no time to prepare at all as something unbearably long and thick is driven into him, stretching him well past any comfortable capacity.  
  
His spine contorts in pain. His vision goes white. He desperately tries to suck in air only to find it ripped from him with every agonised wheeze. It’s too big. Whatever is trying to fuck him has absolutely no consideration for his size, stretching his magic out to breaking point. He thinks he can feel it splitting, and the burn has pitiful tears welling up in his eye-sockets, his soul seizing in terror.  
  
“Stop, stop, stop-!” he begs, but of course whoever stole his magic can’t hear him, and trying to reach down to shove the invader out of him is futile. He spreads his femurs and grips hard at his pubic bone, desperately trying to distract himself with some sort of competing sensation to block out the hurt. Normally he _likes_ pain, but he’d never stopped to question how much of his enjoyment was facilitated by his consent and his absolute trust in his brother. Papyrus has pushed his limits before, but never like this where Sans can feel his magic sparking in protest, burning through his pelvis in warning.  
  
Just when he thinks he can’t take it any more, the protrusion inside him recedes, giving him just a moment of reprieve as it withdraws before crudely shoving back in again. And again. Never as deep as that first time; his assailant seems too greedy for the friction, jerking in and out of him with inexperienced haste that leaves Sans choking with every violent movement.   
  
The bedroom door slams open, and even though Sans should have known to expect it, he’s dismayed at his brother’s arrival. Worse, he can hear the heavy footsteps to indicate at least two of the guard have followed him.   
  
“Sans!”  
  
His brother sounds frantic, but Sans can’t even call out to reassure him. All his energy is going in to holding back the harsh yelps that want to force their way out of his throat. He’s appalled that his brother has to find him like this; pants still shoved around his knees, bent over the edge of the bed, hips twitching helplessly as his body tries to convince him he’s being rocked by every thrust.  
  
Papyrus lifts him easily, turning Sans over and laying him out on the bed properly to inspect him. The sight of wet tears streaking Sans’s face gives him pause, his frustration extinguished in the face of concern.   
  
“Tell me, Sans,” Papyrus says, his large, clawed hands on either side of Sans’s face, and although there’s no snap of command to his voice, Sans is compelled to obey instantly.  
  
“Pap…ah…hnngh…my magic…some…fucking…ugh!” A particularly brutal thrust has his eye-lights rolling, his mind an absolute mess of confusion. He can’t even think straight enough to try and describe what’s happening, and the thought of forcing himself to put it into words is overwhelming.   
  
Thankfully Papyurs is thinking more clearly than he is. “Give me your soul.”  
  
Sans sobs. It’s the very last thing he wants to do, exposing even more of himself right now, but there’s no denying his brother. He claws at his own sternum and forcefully drags his reluctant soul into the open. Papyrus snatches it immediately, and the moment his hands close over it he can feel the connection to his brother, strong as ever, and in return Papyrus can feel exactly what he’s going through. Papyrus’s eyes go wide, a strangled sound hitching out of him as Sans twists and claws at the sheets, hating the horrible throb of heat starting to accompany the pain.  
  
His sight is blurred, but he can still make out Papyrus bending over him, his brother’s strong frame trembling in shock and rage.   
  
“How is this…happening?”  
  
“I don’t know!” Sans wails. “Bro, make it stop, I don’t wanna-!”  
  
A thrust manages to strike at a less agonising angle, and Sans can’t stop himself from moaning, pressing his knees together, arching in the sheets. No, _fuck_ , he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want to be aroused by any measure of this horrible situation, but now that he’s finally adjusted to the crude stimulation his body is finding it not entirely unlike Papyrus’s own rough handling. His pussy has finally produced enough slickness to make the friction almost bearable, and the breath-taking sensation of being filled to bursting is one Sans’s body is tentatively deciding to enjoy.  
  
Sans feels a spark of his brother’s magic through his soul, and he jerks violently, loosing a gasp of pain. Papyrus is exerting all of his will, trying to force Sans’s stolen magic to de-materialise, but Sans can feel something rise to counter it that fills his soul with a blinding surge of agony. He shrieks, convulsing, his face drenched with tears, sweat and spittle as he lashes out blindly. His claws scrape on bone, but before he can try and identify what part of his brother he managed to hit Papyrus is pinning him down and sending a soothing pulse through his soul.  
  
“Enough, Sans, be still,” he rasps, and Sans goes limp, gasping for breath. Papyrus would have felt that feedback as well, albeit not as strongly. Both of them are breathless, shuddering, and Sans can only hope that whichever guards Papyrus brought with him are loyal to a fault.  
  
A moment later he becomes belatedly aware that the horrible thrusting sensation has finally stopped. For a moment hope surges at the idea that maybe Papyrus’s interference with his magic scared them off…until he realises that beneath the soreness of his abused cunt, he can feel the sticky presence of some foreign substance dripping out of him and he realises that rather than being deterred, his abuser must have finally gotten off at some point during the throes of his agony.  
  
They came inside of him, and Sans has no means to clean their disgusting presence out. He blinks dazedly at the ceiling, feeling utterly revolted. “F-fuck…”  
  
“Where is the Royal Healer?” Papyrus snaps to the guard, holding Sans’s soul protectively to his chest.  
  
“Still coming, my King,” one of them replies, sounding remarkably calm and professional despite the circumstances. Sans glances over and sees both guards have their gazes politely averted and are watching the corridor whilst remaining close in case of any other threat.  
  
Papyrus swears softly, turning back to Sans, his eyelights burning like embers in hell’s fire. “I knew I should have insisted they check you more thoroughly! I should never have let you-!”  
  
Both skeletons freeze as something is pressed up against Sans’s magic again. Sans is horrified by the absent realisation that he can tell that it isn’t the same intrusion as before. The shape is different, narrower but more bulbous at the tip, and the texture is unusual, rubbery and amphibious.   
  
“Oh fuck,” he breathes, struck by the sudden realisation that this won’t stop. That he’s going to have to feel and endure as his pussy is passed around like a party-favour to whoever stole it, and there’s absolutely nothing he can do.   
  
He tries to scramble away from his brother to curl into a ball of abject misery, but Papyrus forces him still, gripping tightly onto his soul even if it means clutching the raw threads of Sans’s panic.   
  
“Enough! Sans, be still!”  
  
He’s trying to feed encouragement and calm into Sans, but it’s not working. All the stress of the day, the ugly weight of buried discomfort, the heavy stares, the knowing silences…he can’t take this and he doesn’t want to feel some faceless stranger forcing their way inside of him but no amount of clenching can keep them from penetrating his magic. His voice cracks harshly, his throat raw and already worn out. It hurts less this time, but that only makes him feel worse as they plumb his slippery passage, taking advantages of his previously built arousal and the come already inside of him.  
  
A second face hovers over his own, faintly recognisable as the Royal Healer, and Papyrus spits a curse of relief. “About time!”  
  
“Apologies, my King,” they murmur fearfully. Papyrus explains the situation crisply and succinctly while Sans desperately tries to block out everything, small hiccups of distress escaping him every time he feels a particularly gratifying thrust inside him. There’s a pressure building inside him and it isn’t even remotely welcome. He feels utterly disgraced as the healer tentatively touches his soul, briefly sharing his experience of the horror and leaving Sans with yet another unwanted violation of his person.  
  
“I-I can’t think of any means of dampening the feedback to his soul without p-permanently severing that part of his magic,” the healer stutters, shrinking under Papyrus’s judgemental gaze. Sans flinches, wondering if castration would be preferable, but the healer hurriedly continues, “With the Queen’s low health, that might be f-fatal. I’ll need…m-more time to study his condition.”  
  
“How much time?” Papyrus growls.  
  
The healer squeaks. “I don’t know! I won’t until I understand how they achieved this!”  
  
“There must be something you can do in the meantime,” Papyrus says, and although his voice is sharp there’s an undertone of desperation.   
  
“We could…sedate him?”  
  
Papyrus looks down at Sans, trying to hold his brother’s gaze, but Sans is beyond any means of coherency or reassurance. His body is starting to shudder with an impending climax that he doesn’t want but can’t ignore.  
  
“Make it stop,” Sans begs quietly, his eye sockets dark and unseeing.  
  
Papyrus hesitates, then nods at the healer. “Do it.”  
  
Something cool and calming punctures his soul, and as Sans’s awareness drains away so does the last threads of his resistance. The last thing he feels is his body being wracked by shocks of unwanted pleasure, his magic pulsing and his soul expelling its own sordid release before the healer’s magic puts him under.


	2. Chapter 2

Something warm and slick is thrusting into him. 

Sans draws in a heavy breath, faintly feeling his fingers and toes curling into the silken sheets of the royal bed. There’s a deep ache inside him, his pussy sore and fatigued, but each penetration stretches him out with a gratifying twinge that makes his summoned parts throb with need. He groans, exhausted and only on the verge of consciousness, but the almost violent sensations keep him reluctantly aware and anticipating the slowly coiling pressure of climax creeping up on him.

But something’s wrong.

He should be feeling his brother’s hands on him, hearing his voice, but there’s nothing but a perturbing absence. The soft, dreamlike feeling of pleasure starts to erode with uncertain dread as his body goes tight with fear and revulsion. He’s starting to remember, and the sedative is wearing off. He doesn’t want to be awake but he can’t fall unconscious either -- not when his body is under assault and his instincts are screaming at him. 

Another hard thrust enters him at a slightly different angle, making him gasp in unwilling pleasure. He doesn’t want this. His bones are hot and sensitive and he’s starting to shake as he reaches his peak. He jerks against the mattress, eyes open blindly as he throws out a hand to the space his brother normally occupies in their bed. It’s empty, and he wants to scream in agony and despair. 

He doesn’t want to endure this by himself. 

“P-pap!” he sobs, and in the next moment he feels his brother’s arms around him, his larger, stronger body an unyielding foundation for Sans to steady himself against. 

“Sans,” Papyrus says, and his voice belies the steadiness of his posture. There’s a desperate crack of emotion in the way he says Sans’s name. “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”

It does, but that’s not Sans’s greatest concern. He can’t stop himself from rocking weakly against his brother’s chest, pelvis grinding down on the mattress, pitiful whimpers clawing their way up his throat. 

“I can’t-!” he begs, willing his brother to understand. “I can’t, I’m sorry, it’s too-!”

He comes with unexpected and unwanted intensity, his words melting into a stuttering moan as his vision whites out. His pussy clenches rhythmically around whoever is inside him, and he can feel their cock with unbearable clarity. Their length shorter than his earlier violators, with a thick girth and curved shape that somehow managed to thrust knowingly against one of his most sensitive areas. He can feel them still trying to move through his tightening passage, but they must have been close themselves because he feels an answering gush of heated liquid inside of him to join the compounding filth of countless others.

As the aftershocks pass, he collapses weakly against Papyrus, desperately breathing his scent of musky bone and cured leather, trying to find some measure of comfort in their familiarity. His brain is only barely processing the horror that someone other than his brother just made him come, his body completely betraying his lover and King. He feels utterly nauseous, and as his breath starts to slow he becomes suddenly aware of Papyrus’s dangerous silence. 

“Bro?” he whispers, hesitantly daring to look up at him. The unbridled fury on the King’s face makes him quail immediately, mortified and disgusted with himself beyond all measure. Painful tears prick at his eye-sockets. God, he feels pathetic. “S-s-sorry...I couldn’t-”

“Quiet,” Papyrus says, and even though his voice is soft, Sans flinches as if struck. Almost immediately his brother softens the words with an incremental tightening of his phalanges on Sans’s shoulders, but the gesture seems small in the face of Papyrus’s hardened expression. All previous traces of emotion have been buried now under the curt, commanding inflections that mean it’s time for King’s business. Papyrus shifts in the chair at the bedside, his body turned like a shield to protect their conversation from the rest of the room. Sans goes still, trying to keep his shudders quelled as he waits to hear his brother’s command.

“The sedation was making it more difficult to track the origin of this attack on your magic,” Papyrus tells him quietly. Almost absently, he adjusts the pillows and sets Sans back against the headboard as if he’s some invalid in need of treatment. Sans supposes that’s not entirely wrong; his pelvis is aching so badly he’s not sure he could walk across the room without collapsing. “The healer is going to attempt to narrow the search by analysing your soul. In the meantime, I’m going to lead a contingent of guards back to Waterfall. We’re going to search the area where you were found to try and pick up a trail.” 

Sans has to bite back his immediate, aghast reaction. Sans has never felt more vulnerable and helpless and Papyrus is leaving him. In the palace, sure, surrounded by loyal retainers and guards, absolutely none of whom Sans is comfortable with seeing him in this state. Already he’s burning with humiliation at the realisation that his unrestrained awakening had an audience; the two guards from earlier as well as the healer and what looks to be their assistant. Papyrus too, of course, which is both better and worse. His brother is the last person he wants seeing him in this state, and yet Papyrus is also the only one who should see him like this -- at his weakest and ugliest. Sans had thought their bond was strong enough to survive anything.

Looking at Papyrus’s impassive expression now, he suddenly isn’t so sure.

An agitated buzzing makes them both jump slightly -- a testament to their highly strung nerves. Irritably, Papyrus pulls out his phone, scowling down in displeasure at the screen at whoever was rude enough to bother him...only for his expression to go disturbingly blank, his red eyelights vanishing in shock. 

“W-what?” Sans asks, feeling an unpleasant twist in the space where his soul should have been. “Who is it?”

Papyrus clearly hesitates, his leather-clad fingers twitching around the delicate device. There’s a tight, almost strangled note in his voice as he answers simply, “You.”

Sans blinks for a moment, uncomprehending, before realising that his phone was one of the items the guard hadn’t managed to recover. He’d assumed whoever took it would have destroyed it -- he almost can’t believe they were stupid enough to hold onto it -- but clearly they wanted to make sure his brother answered their call. 

Papyrus gives him a look of almost frightening intensity before viciously pressing the button to accept the call and bringing it up to his face. “What do you want?”

Sans can hear the high, mocking lilt of their reply, but can’t make out the words. He’s not sure he would want to. These are the bastards holding his magic hostage and clearly they want something from his brother. He hadn’t yet taken time to consider what exactly their plans were aside from torturing him from a distance, but now he can realise the ingenious cruelty of it. By giving Sans back and only keeping a piece of his magic, not only have they divided his brother’s attention but ensured that Papyrus is forced to watch Sans suffer...and though the King isn’t known for having many weaknesses, his one critical vulnerability has always been his brother. 

Sans feels gutted, but the disgust and guilt are nothing next to the shock that rocks through him as something invades his pussy once again. Fingers this time -- he notes dimly -- scissoring him open, spreading his already abused entrance. He realises too late that Papyrus is watching his face, that the bastard on the phone is probably telling him too, as he lets out a small, wounded noise, gripping fiercely at the sheets. 

“Bro,” he hisses, drawing his knees up to his chest, but it’s a useless gesture. He can’t protect the part of him that’s been severed from the rest of his body. There’s nothing he can do to stop this from happening. “Whatever they want, d-don’t--hngh!”

More fingers hooking inside him, curling against his inner walls to find purchase on either side of his cunt before pulling him apart so the passage into his pussy gapes wide. Sans’s body seizes up, his spine contorting in pain at the unnatural stretch. Mindlessly, his femurs spread apart as if he could help his pelvis accommodate the way his sex is being forced wide, and in a mortifying moment of clarity he realises how obscene he must look -- eyes rolled back, mouth open and panting harshly, legs spread like a whore as his hips tremble from the agonising pressure. He catches sight of his brother’s face and immediately has to look away, feeling wretched and weak and completely ashamed that some part of him is still faintly aroused. 

“Stop,” Papyrus says, clearly and succinctly, his voice alarmingly steady even though his hands are trembling so hard it’s a wonder the phone doesn’t shatter in his grip. “You’ve made your point. Now list your demands.”

The pressure eases off with a suddenness that makes Sans collapse in on himself, his body wracked with violent shudders that he can’t seem to put a stop to. His sockets are burning with the need to purge themselves though helpless tears that he furiously blinks back. He’s trying to ignore the way his pelvis is throbbing with an ache that’s equal parts insistent and disappointed -- an itch that hasn’t been properly scratched. Normally sexual frustration isn’t something he has to worry about, with his brother taking care of his needs, but right now the idea of getting off is almost repulsive despite what his body seems to want. 

He’s so wrapped up in his own misery he seems to lose a few minutes, because abruptly Papyrus has ended the call and is staring at the phone as if his glare could make it spontaneously combust in his grip. Sans shakes his head to clear it and tries to sit up, having to lean heavily on the pillows.

He’s almost afraid to ask, but… “What do they want?”

Papyrus’s jaw clenches hard enough that Sans can hear the way his teeth grind together. “Many things. Impossible demands. They’re testing their power to see what I’ll agree to.”

He seems to contemplate throwing the phone against the wall, but apparently thinks better of it. His tight posture folds a little, spine bending under some unfathomable weight. “They want me to release Snowdin and Waterfall from Royal rule and permit them to fall into anarchy. They want me to disband the Guard and instate an independent policing force manned by the people. They want me to give all the wealth in the Treasury to them to do with as they see fit.”

Sans laughs harshly, the noise a burble of disbelief and horror. “That’s ridiculous.”

Any of those demands would make the Underground fall apart in less than a week. Only the strength of Papyrus’s leadership and vision is keeping monsters from descending into violent, murderous despair. As long as they believe in Papyrus, they can keep hoping that one day there will be an escape from the Underground. It’s the only thing keeping the population sane. 

For Papyrus to give in to any of those demands would be a concession of weakness, and if his power is at all compromised, the people will lose faith. Monsters will start falling down or going on rampages to gain enough LOVE to challenge him. Everything will fall apart. It would be insanity, and their crumbling society might very well collapse. 

“You can’t,” Sans says, the weight of that knowledge settling painfully in his chest. 

“I can’t,” Papyrus agrees, sounding equally miserable. For a moment, the sharp planes of his face seem exceptionally young to Sans. His brother should never be put in this position of having to choose between his people and his Queen. 

His love for Sans shouldn’t be the thing that breaks him. 

“So don’t,” Sans tells him fiercely, catching his brother’s hand and squeezing it hard. “Ignore them. It’ll take a few hours for them to realise you’re not gonna do anything. We still have time. Go hunt the fuckers down just like you said you would.”

There’s a moment of pause where Papyrus looks at him as if somehow just now seeing Sans for the first time, the oppressive weight seeming to lift from his posture. That alone would have been enough, but Sans isn’t prepared for the way Papyrus suddenly seizes his wrists, clenching them tightly enough to make the bones creak. His eyes are blazing with crimson smoke, but his gaze is steady, and Sans almost startles as his younger brother unexpectedly kneels at his bedside.

“I will find them for you, Sans. And I will dust every one who dared to touch you. Not a single one will live.”

Sans feels a different sort of shiver -- one that almost pulls the corner of his mouth into a smile. From Papyrus, that’s practically a declaration of love. He returns his brother’s hold, although his grip isn’t nearly as strong.

“I know,” he says simply, because he does. Even before his brother was King, there wasn’t anything that could stand in Papyrus’s way. His brother was just too cool. He tries to dredge up a braver smile. “Go fuck ‘em up, Boss.”

Papyrus gives a savage, confident smirk, rising to stand. “Don’t leave our quarters. It shouldn’t be possible for anyone to damage your HP through your magic, but you shouldn’t exert yourself. If anything happens, the healer has been instructed to call me.”

Papyrus takes a moment to adjust his scarf -- the one he continues to wear in spite of it being at odds with his much more impressive royal vestments -- hesitating over his next words. “If need be, you can ask the healer to sedate you again, but-”

“That’ll make the tracking harder, right?” Sans asks, and Papyrus nods stiffly. “Then I won’t. It’s fine. I can deal.”

That doesn’t seem to be the answer Papyrus is looking for. His face is a tight scowl. “I don’t want-”

“It’s fine, Boss,” Sans insists, sitting up as tall as his stout frame can manage. He’s trying not to notice it, but something unseemly is dripping out of his pussy, and he can’t help but grimace. “Just be quick?”

Thankfully that seems to galvanise Papyrus into motion. With another sharp nod and the shallow bow that’s always been his personal farewell to his Queen, Papyrus turns away. He pauses only to give a few low, stern commands to the guards at the door that Sans doesn’t bother to eavesdrop on. He’s not in the mood to concentrate on much of anything as he burrows back down in the bed, trying to find a position to ease some of the horrifying ache in his pelvis. 

To his annoyance, the healer ignores his off-putting scowl and dares to approach him. They look pitifully contrite, as if they feel somehow responsible for the current situation. Sans imagines Papyrus must have lambasted them for overlooking Sans’s stolen magic during the first inspection. They’re lucky they’re one of the last trained healers in the Kingdom, or else Papyrus might have expressed his displeasure in more than words.

“Is there anything I can do for you, my Queen?” the healer asks earnestly. They’re still holding Sans’s soul, which is making him intensely uncomfortable, but thankfully their touch projects nothing but a reserved concern that politely walls off most of their emotions. 

Sans sighs deeply. Unlike his brother, he knows there’s no point in venting his frustrations on the staff. “How’s the tracking going?”

“Poorly,” the healer admits with unusual frankness. Their mouth is set in an unhappy line. “Unfortunately I can only attempt to trace your magic when it’s being...handled.”

“Ugh,” Sans cringes, feeling disgusted on a whole new level. He’d been almost relieved that until the kidnappers know his brother’s plans he’ll probably have a reprieve from their attentions, but if that means this is going to take longer...He presses his knees together, shifting uncomfortably on the mattress. “Don’t suppose you can do anything to numb the…”

Sans’s face screws up at the thought of having to articulate it, so he just gestures vaguely at his pelvis area. The healer gives his covered bones a discomfitingly intense stare, as if they can see right through the blanket, and then perks up slightly. They carefully hand Sans his soul back before turning away. “One moment.”

They duck between the guards at the door and out into the hallway. Sans tries not to feel embarrassed, sitting there with his soul in hand -- he might as well be splayed out and exposing himself to the guards even though their gazes are very determinedly fixed on the far side of the room and not anywhere in Sans’s vicinity. 

His soul is...dripping. It’s not so surprising, given his recent climax, but it’s just another piece of damning evidence to show how badly his body has betrayed him. His bones feel sticky too, with sweat and the aroused condensation that tends to ooze from his joints when he’s close to orgasm. Once upon a time he was comfortable ruminating in his own filth, but now he just wants to crawl out of his own figurative skin. For a moment he thinks yearningly of the sweet numbness of unconsciousness, and almost wishes he hadn’t told his brother he’d hold off on the sedative.

Thankfully it doesn’t take the healer long to return, and when they do it’s with a large mug of something frothy and thick that gets pushed unceremoniously into Sans’s hands. His face is screwed up dubiously as he gives it a sniff, but brightens immediately when he catches a whiff of something tantalisingly alcoholic in the brew. 

“This should help deaden the pain somewhat, as well as help your body relax during any future incidents.” They offer him a small, mischievous smile, eyes darting slyly to the guards before turning back on Sans. In an almost inaudible whisper, they murmur, “Don’t tell the King.”

“I won’t,” Sans swears immediately, and gratefully begins sculling from the heavy mug. 

It’s some combination of heavy liqueurs with a slightly herbal taste -- either something medicinal to hide the fact that it’s basically an anaesthetising cocktail, or perhaps there’s some element to increase it’s potency. It burns delightfully in his mouth, immediately numbing his tongue and throat and filling his bones with a heavy heat. Suddenly the sticky film on his body seems much more bearable, and the ache in his pelvis is just a dim, distant concern. 

He hisses appreciatively. “H-holy fuck, you gotta tell me how you make that.”

“I don’t think the King would approve,” the healer murmurs, gently taking back Sans’s soul. The incidental squeeze of their fingers makes Sans’s ribs hitch in a tight breath, but he finds he minds the invasive feeling much less now. “I’ll need to wake you if the attacks start again to help with the tracking, but until then you should try and get some rest for now, my Queen .”

The healer is some sort of holy godsend, Sans’s muddled mind decides, because not only are they encouraging him to sleep it off, but they’re even thoughtful enough to draw the heavy curtains that flank the corners of the royal bed, offering him some semblance of privacy.

“Thanks,” he slurs indistinctly, curling up into a tight, protective ball now that he no longer has to worry about appearances in front of the guards. Almost gleefully, he realises he can now safely kick his shorts off since they’re doing nothing but sticking to his femurs and making him feel damp and uncomfortable. He tosses them carelessly towards the edge of the bed, wincing slightly as they leave a gooey smear on the inside of the curtains before falling to the floor with a wet splat. Papyrus will probably bitch about that later, when he comes back…

Shit. He’d really wanted to sleep for a bit, and childishly pretend for a while that none of this was really happening, but thinking of his brother’s pedantic nagging reminds him that Papyrus is out there looking for the bastards who took his magic, and even surrounded by his guards there’s always a risk. Whoever these monsters are, they’re obviously organised and powerful if they could manage to kidnap Sans from the royal entourage. Sans doesn’t want to credit them with much intelligence, given their unreasonable demands, but it would be dangerous to assume they’re stupid. Maybe they have some other goal in mind, and the phone call was just another distraction. The idea fills him with uncomfortable dread. 

He suddenly wishes Papyrus hadn’t left him behind. Sure, Sans isn’t much of a fighter himself, but his magic is enough to make most monsters think twice and he’d have felt better knowing his eyes and blasters were there to watch his brother’s back. For a moment he seriously considers getting up and going after Papyrus, but his first attempt at movement just sends him sprawling back face-first into the pillows and sends a warning tingle of distant agony up his spine. The healer’s drink almost made him forget, but he’s really not in any shape to be walking anywhere. With a frustrated sigh, he resigns himself to staying put. 

He’s definitely relaxed and a hell of a lot more comfortable now, so much so that he’s on the verge of dozing when he feels that first, displaced pressure of someone touching his pussy again. He startles back to wakefulness, feeling both groggy and tense as something is pushed into him. It’s far smaller than he was expecting, and for a moment he feels baffled. It’s probably only the size of a coin, but oval shaped, slightly thicker than his thumb. It’s smooth like a stone, and for a moment he thinks that’s what it is until it suddenly starts vibrating inside him at a steady, intense frequency.

Oh fuck. Some kinky bastard thought to bring out their sex toy collection. 

The curtains at the bedside rustle. “My Queen?”

“I’m awake,” he rasps back unsteadily, squirming back under the blankets to make sure his naked bones are covered, but the healer doesn’t intrude on his sanctuary. Inadvertently, the muscles of his inner walls squeeze around the new intrusion, and he lets out a small sound as the buzzing bullet slides more deeply into him. 

“I was afraid of this,” the healer says, their voice low and uneasy through the curtain. “They’re using objects to stimulate you rather than their own bodies or magic. That’ll make tracking almost impossible.”

Another bullet is pushed into him. This one’s thrumming at a slightly slower frequency, acting as a distracting counterpoint to the first one. Sans groans, burying his face in the pillows. “Call the King and tell him.”

He’d be pleased at how quickly they move to obey, but it’s honestly hard to think of anything outside of the raging oscillation that’s making the entirety of his cunt ripple with tremors. It’s not as blatantly painful as being stretched around someone’s cock, but perhaps it’s just too early for that. A third bullet enters him, and he’s starting to feel a hint of the discomforting fullness that’s sure to come.

The kidnappers must have figured out they were being hunted. Either that, or they just want to give his brother more motivation to obey them. He’d have thought by now his body would be too exhausted and traumatised for any further stimulation to his sex to be anything but unpleasant -- maybe even irritating -- but despite every pessimistic evaluation of his own stamina he’s starting to find himself being reluctantly worked up by the invasive buzzing. In the grand spectrum of today’s violations, it’s slightly less despicable to be affected by an object rather than some faceless rapist. He feels too warm. His hips are twitching at the thought of a more satisfying pressure to balance out the ceaseless throbbing tease, and though he struggles briefly to resist the urge, the sensations are too strong for him to ignore. He tentatively reaches a hand under the sheets angling his pelvis to meet his own touch.

He initially tries pressing a hand to his pubic symphysis only to hiss in displeasure. Even if it’s not his actual body being fucked, he still feels intensely sore and over-sensitive. His phalanges feel rough and hard, scraping painfully even with the lightest pressure. The friction only seems to chafe him in an unsatisfying way, and with a distressed whine he looks around for something softer. 

The pillow? He snatches one from the headrest and shoves it between his legs. Its body is thick and full of plump cushioning encased in spider silk -- a gift from Muffet and her clan. The contact still feels raw but it’s a vast improvement over his fingers, and with a small grunt he tightens his femurs around the body of the pillow and carefully rocks himself against it.

“Haah...fuuuuck.” His voice quavers with the effort as his hips move minutely back and forth. For a moment, he doesn’t care that it’s only a curtain separating him from the guards, and they can undoubtedly still hear him. Silk glides against his tailbone and ischium, teasing the underside of his pelvic inlet in a way that finally enhances that displaced, intolerable feeling in his cunt. His inner walls start to spasm, clenching around the rumbling intrusions inside him, and Sans writhes in both discomfort and reluctant pleasure.

He’s almost finding a rhythm when suddenly a new bullet is pressed to the outside of his pussy, directly against his clit, and with a strangled shriek he comes before he’s properly ready for it, the intensity cutting right through the numbness brought on by the healer’s drink. The violence of his reaction is almost frightening, his limbs jerking wildly without control before the brutal peak passes and his body starts to come down from the frenzy of orgasm. 

He feels utterly wrung out by it, his whole cunt throbbing acutely, a heavy lethargy suffusing his limbs...only the vibrations aren’t stopping. In fact, he can feel another bullet being added to his passage, rumbling and knocking against the others. Sans wheezes pitifully. He should try and call for the healer, tell them to fuck his previous words to his brother and give him another goddamn sedative so he doesn’t have to be conscious for this, but his attempt to talk just sounds like a gargle of incomprehensible syllables that ends in another wail as the vibration returns to his clit again. The second orgasm, so soon after the first, leaves him almost senseless. The drink has helped slightly, but not enough. His eye-lights have snuffed out, and all his magic is focused on just holding his body together through the unending waves of stimulation.

Another bullet. Another orgasm. It hurts, now, the pleasure being completely overridden by fatigue and oversensitivity. His face is wet with tears he hasn’t even noticed himself crying. His pelvis feels like it’s on fire, burning with an ache that only gets more fierce with each passing moment. Any touch is suddenly too much, but he can’t seem to extract himself from the blankets, or even control his limbs with any level of finesse. He just flops helplessly against the mattress, shaking with dread as more objects are pushed inside him. 

Although skeletons don’t need to breathe, he’s gasping as if he’s suffocating, his face smothered against the mattress, blinded and trapped, unable to free himself. Distantly, he thinks he hears someone’s voice -- one of the guards, maybe -- but he can’t make out a word, can’t process anything else but how much his pussy hurts and how little he can do about it. The pressure isn’t as sharp as it was at first, but not even multiple orgasms and liberal alcohol can make him loose enough to comfortably fit all the things being stuffed inside him. If anything, the sheer exhaustion of his inner muscles makes it impossible to force anything out, so there’s nothing he can do to relieve the awful pressure.

“P-paaaaaaaaaaah…” He can’t quite articulate his brother’s name, but he wants nothing more than for Papyrus to be here, to help him, to make it better or make it stop or anything but this. A faint squeeze against his soul reminds him suddenly that it’s not in his chest, and for a moment he quivers with fresh panic before there’s a bite of piercing pressure against his core and everything goes blessedly dim and silent.

**Author's Note:**

> For faster updates, come join me at askellie.tumblr.com!


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